


j'ai jete mon coeur

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are not my squire," she says quietly when he begins to remove her armor, unbuckling her pauldrons and sliding them from her shoulders to fall to the ground with a clang. She has done this for him a time or two, but he has never returned the favor.</p><p>"I am for this evening," he tells her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	j'ai jete mon coeur

It's a strange thing, seeing her ride into camp, fresh from battle without him. He'd been in favor of splitting his men to come at the Lannister forces from both sides, but only until he realized it meant Dacey would ride with her mother in the van. But he'd had no way to protest without raising suspicion and so he'd watched her go and felt like his heart was tied to her saddle, jolting and bruising with every length her horse increased between them. He'd been back in the camp long before she, long enough for Olyvar to strip his armor, long enough for him to wash and dress and pace his tent a dozen times, dashing outside far too hastily to be seemly at the sound of the van returning.

She sits a horse beautifully, that's his first thought after reassuring himself that she's all right, that she's sound and whole and safe back where he can see her. In her armor and mail, with her mace in her belt, she's like a maiden warrior, fierce and strong, like Nymeria with her ships. Her hair is in its customary braid, but the wind has caught a few strands about her face and they stream over her cheeks, sticking in the blood there - the blood of another, Robb can only hope.

He retreats into his tent before he makes himself a fool, orders her to be brought to him immediately. He expects her to divest herself of armor first, to see to her horse and her men, but it's only moments before the clank of her armor at the flap of the tent has him whirling in a circle to face her, drinking in the sight of her like it's been years since he saw her rather than hours.

"Your Grace?" she asks. "You have need of me?" The quirk of her lips tells him she knows just what he'll take of her question and he's half hard already, remembering spending himself within her in the dark of the night, remembering the taste of her cunt on the flat of his tongue, coating it like honeyed wine.

"Come here," he tells her, and she shivers at the roughness of his command. He can see in her eyes that she doesn't know what he intends, but she moves to stand before him, still and waiting, watching him with eyes that never seem to miss the slightest thing. 

"You are not my squire," she says quietly when he begins to remove her armor, unbuckling her pauldrons and sliding them from her shoulders to fall to the ground with a clang. She has done this for him a time or two, but he has never returned the favor.

"I am for this evening," he tells her.

Her armor is sleek, beautiful in a way Robb's own is not. It does not hide any of her body, does not make her look a man. A pattern of vines is worked into her breastplate around her sigil, the sinuous curves a contrast to the hard lines of the metal. It suits her, he thinks. Robb's men always seem to grow smaller with their armor shed, but Dacey shows no such diminishment. She stands before him in breeches and a thin shift, sweat making the linen stick to her ribs and curve over her breasts the way his hands itch to do as well.

"I am sweat-slick and bloodied," she says to him as if hearing his desire, and it's true that she is, but it doesn't lessen his desire. It only makes him need her more.

Her nipple is already stiff and peaked when he dips his knees to catch it with his lips, tasting salt over the linen under his tongue, smelling the particular scent of her that he needs only the barest hint of to grow instantly hard, no matter where he is, no matter with whom. She raises her hands to tangle in his hair, holding him to her breast and urging him closer, an urging he has no trouble following. His hands curve around her ribs. They stand out too much, she has lost weight during the campaign. He thinks to have food ordered for her, to ask her to dine with him, perhaps. Something rich to erase the shallow grooves he feels between her ribs under his fingers, the pronounced bows of her collarbones under his lips as he works his mouth up to her neck to nuzzle and suck at the spot behind her ear where she's sensitive.

"Shall I bathe you, my lady?" he asks, pushing his nose against that perfectly soft patch of skin, the hair there finer and softer than it is anywhere else. 

"Yes," she tells him. "Please."

The tub has not been emptied and taken away from his previous bath, and he leads her to it with her hand in his, pulling her in his wake. It's unusual for her to be so docile. Robb thinks it maybe the novelty of his actions. She raises her arms obediently when he grasps her shirt by the hem and pulls it over her head, sets one hand on his shoulder for balance when he tugs her breeches and smallclothes down her thighs and calves so she can step out of them. Her braid is wild, disheveled. It's heavy on her breast, heavy in his hand when he takes hold of it and weighs it, wraps it around his wrist like a silken shackle.

She makes a move to step into the tub, but Robb stops her, holds her still with a hand cupped over the jut of her hipbone.

"Robb?" she asks curiously. He says nothing, only takes up a length of linen and stoops to swirl it in the water. Her body jerks when he lays the cloth on the slope of her chest, her eyes darkening and then fluttering closed as he draws it over her, clearing blood and sweat and grime from her pale skin until it shines like fresh milk. Over her chest and ribs, down her arms, across her belly and down her legs, the linen glides beneath his hand, the only sound in the room the music of the water and the even sweeter music of her ragged breathing that hitches when he pulls the linen over her breast or her nape or the inside of her thigh. He drops onto his knees and sits back on his heels, wrapping a hand about one delicate ankle to lift her foot and wash it clean, and then the other, setting her foot to curve over his thigh when he’s done. Again she sets a hand at his shoulder for balance. The shift of her legs reveals her to him, the smell of her cunt as sharp as a fishhook in his nose. Gods, no soft, perfumed lady could smell sweeter to him. No maid with lotioned hands and powdered cheeks could feel better.

The linen drops from his hands, forgotten. He runs his thumbs up the insides of her thighs, pushing into the supple yield of her muscles, her white skin dimpling at his touch. She trembles when he brings his thumbs together at her cunt, her head dropping back at the soft caress that parts her for him, at his thumbs dipping into her wetness and rubbing over her.

“R-robb,” she says, her voice a shiver. He doesn’t think she’s ever been so undone with him. She’s always so strong, the best sort of demanding, something Robb could not enjoy more, but this is just as sweet, and maybe ever sweeter for all that it’s unexpected.

She jerks at the touch of his tongue, her foot slipping off his thigh. He catches her behind her knee, pulls it over his shoulder and pushes his face in to breathe in her sweetness, still mixed with the barest tang of sweat and blood even after his ministrations. He opens his mouth over her, sucks at her in hot kisses, and her other knee almost buckles, so that he has to hold her up to his mouth, her hands clenching in his hair.

“Is,” she starts, then makes a high whimper when he swirls his tongue over her, when he finds the right place to circle with his lips and suck. “I-is this something your squire does for you? Because if it is, I need a new, oh, _oh_ , I n-need a new squire.” Robb smiles into her, works his face into her to reward her for her cleverness. Her voice becomes ever more unraveled, she quivers and shakes against him, the almost painful clench of her fingers in his hair letting him know she’s coming just before he tastes it on his tongue. He drinks of her release, licks her softly, gently, soothing her through it, until she loosens her hands, her body weighing heavily on his arms. She wriggles in his grip, pushing him to sit back and dropping to straddle his lap. She’s never especially been one for cuddling and cosseting afterwards, preferring instead to lie curved together like spoons and go straight to sleep, but she holds his head to her breasts now, lays her cheek on his hair and strokes over his shoulders and back.

“I most definitely need a new squire if that’s what I’m missing,” she sighs, her voice soft around the edges, her heart beating steady under his cheek. He smiles and presses a kiss over that beat, lets it sound against his lips.

“I am ever at your service, my lady,” he says.


End file.
